Eliot Ambrose was a man obsessed with time. Not in the way of punctuality or schedules, but with the very fabric of time itself, the way it slipped through his fingers, the way it stretched and compressed, and the way it left him perpetually longing for more. He was a clockmaker, and his shop was a museum of ticking, whirring, and chiming. Grandfather clocks with ornate faces lined the walls, pocket watches gleamed in vel...